


Dulce et Decorum Est

by Lorde_Shadowz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Betrayed Harry Potter, Dementor Alliance, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter in Azkaban, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Sane Morfin (well...mostly)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorde_Shadowz/pseuds/Lorde_Shadowz
Summary: Harry was framed and sent to Azkaban for the "murder" of Cedric Diggory. All hope seems to be lost...that is, until he gets a cellmate. A cellmate who happens to be the uncle of Lord Voldemort himself. Will Morfin Gaunt's erratic advice- and Harry newfound power- be enough to save the Wizarding World?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	Dulce et Decorum Est

It was so very cold in Azkaban. Dementors swept by each cell, hollow-eyed, sucking up men's happier emotions like fine wine until the prisoners, the ones that survived, were nothing more than shells of themselves, animated but not truly living. Guards, mostly suspended aurors or petty criminals, walked a beat at the great stone gates, not that they needed to. Only one prisoner had ever escaped from Azkaban, and he was far from typical. Besides, the moment that the DMLE had discovered how he had escaped (it was a wonder that they could have figured _that_ out so fast while still being ignorant of the fact that the man had been innocent, wasn't it?) they had put magic suppressors and anti-animagus wards in place, so that no one could ever attempt to escape in that way again. And there was no other way, really. The walls were made of cold stone, frosted with salty spume from the treacherous waves that surrounded the prison, and these walls stretched higher than hopes could dream of climbing. And in the very deepest level, so far down that the sun did not reach into his cell and even the dementors shuddered to make their rounds, was one particular prisoner whose story we shall now be following.

In outward appearance, the man- boy, really, as he was only seventeen- looked quite mad, which would not have surprised anyone considering how long he had been here on the very deepest levels. When the occasional guard or warden passed by- or visitors, although he had not had any of those for two years at least, he would affect a blank stare, glassy green eyes dark and stormy as the sea outside, and just as barren of intelligent life. But when no one was there, he changed.

Harry James Potter was going through his personal routine on the particular evening that this story starts. He practiced his magic- wandless, of course, as the mentor that he thought would believe him had snapped his wand when he had been sent here- and then struggled through a particularly grueling routine that he had formulated years ago in a similar hell, one which had been made only slightly less abhorrent by the lack of _literal_ soul-sucking monsters. It was simple enough to do pushups on the grimy stone floor- it was cold as his prosecutors' hearts, but then, he was familiar enough with exercising- and sleeping- on cold stone floors, having done so almost exclusively for the first eleven years of his life. Warm beds and exercise mats were not suitable for "freaks". But Harry was not entirely insane. Oh, he was a little unhinged; anyone would be after the things he had seen and witnessed and been framed for, but he had long learned how to meditate so deeply that the dementor-induced fog of despair simply could not touch him, and, as with his godfather before him, he was bolstered by the thought that he had done nothing wrong. He would not give up. Could not give up. But oh, Merlin, it was so hard. He spent most mornings and evenings meditating, but no matter what he did, he could not block out the nightmares of everyone he had counted on turning away from him, could not forget. There was also, of course, the small matter of the occasional visions of rape and murder, too, but he sensed that there was nothing he could have done about that even had he been loved and surrounded by his dead family and all of his friends. It was simply one of the many ways that he was unique- he had a (permanent, he supposed, not that he had ever actually gotten a chance to get it checked) link to the mind of the madman that had wanted him dead from birth.

Harry broke off his thoughts. No. Best not to think about them. Best not to think about how even the headmaster (he would never call him 'Professor Dumbledore' again) had assumed, without even bothering to ask him or have him checked over by a medic or with veritaserum, that he had been possessed, best not to think about how the Ministry of Magic had decided that since Voldemort "was dead and hadn't come back" that he had snapped and was to blame for Cedric's murder because the killing curse (which he had tried to use on Voldemort) had been on his wand. Best not to think about how his closest friends had touted one party line or the other, and only two dorm mates, his escaped-convict godfather (who wasn't legally allowed to speak on his behalf) a mad Ravenclaw, and his most-hated professor had tried to help. Best not to think about how they had burnt everything of his that they could (his map and cloak, mercifully, had been hidden too well) including his wand, his photo album, and his murdered owl. Harry's eyes darkened, and he forced himself to take a deep breath in and compartmentalize the memories, something that he had gotten good at after a year of having to relive his mothers' and Cedric's deaths every time one of the dementors had floated by. Right. It wouldn't do to focus on that, or he'd really, truly go mad.

It was at that moment that he heard footsteps- real, actual footsteps- for the first time in, well, years. Guards. It had to be; dementors floated, and the only sound that they ever made was the sort of spine-chilling sucking sounds they used when trying to slurp up positive emotions. And it was definitely too much to hope for that someone was coming to visit, or to break him out...

"Why the Hell are we even bothering?" A rough voice broke into his thoughts. Definitely a guard. Harry frowned in concentration and sent out the slightest wave of magic to make his cell and clothes (which he had always done his best to clean with drops of water collected from the leak in the corner of the ceiling and from his water jug, as well as using cleaning spells) look dirty and sordid, so that the guards would not suspect that he was anything other than totally mad. He'd found that he could always learn more about his circumstances, and even more about the outside world, if he pretended to be asleep or insensible to their commentary.

"Cause the boss said so, and I'm not going to risk my job the last week before I'm due to be allowed back to auror duty, you idiot," retorted what appeared to be another guard, and now Harry could see their faces, and the haggard, bearded face of another prisoner that they were dragging, in the dim wandlight. Interesting. Who was that, and what had he done to have been put this far down into Azkaban?

"He's just going to gibber until he dies of starvation or dysentery or something," said the other callously. "Why couldn't we just leave him up there?"

"Boss didn't want to hear him wailing and hissing anymore. Just put him in and leave and it'll be fine."

The other guard proceeded to do just that, and Harry was left staring through the bars at the other man, who looked, if anything, even madder than Bellatrix. Oh, lovely. The first company that he had had for...how long was it?...and the guy was totally insane already. Harry wondered vaguely just what he had been put in here for, and supposed it couldn't hurt to try to start a conversation. The worse that the other man could do would be to spit on him or throw something through the bars... "Hello?" he started cautiously.

There was no response, although Harry could not say that he had not been expecting that. The other prisoner stared vacantly at him for a while, then went back to muttering. "Damn that dirty slut, all her fault...no sister of mine...damn that Tom, too...I killed him...he killed him...no, it was me...my wand...his blood...pretty face, it's a pity he got it from that muggle...all Merope's fault, damn her...I killed him..."

Harry had stiffened at the words "Tom," and was now staring at the other with renewed interest. It was probably just some random guy named Tom- Merlin only knew that Tom was a common name- but somehow Harry doubted it, and his intuition was rarely wrong.

"Tom who?" he asked.

The other prisoner stiffened, staring at him. "You speak?"

"Of course I do," Harry asked, wondering if that statement was just another facet of his probable insanity. The prisoner kept staring.

"I haven't heard a Speaker in years," the man whispered, glazed eyes clearing just a little. "Not since that horrible boy-" he shuddered and stopped speaking.

Harry blinked again, and then suddenly realized what the other was talking about. "You mean a parselmouth?" he asked incredulously, finally realizing why the man's muttering had sounded as if it had been superimposed on something else.

"Yesss." This time, since Harry was listening closely and had nothing better to do, he could hear the slight hiss that accompanied the word. "It'sss sso much eassier to talk in parsssel," the man confided, leaning a little closer to the bars, the desire for companionship battling with madness and fear in his eyes. "Englesse was alwayssss a ssecond language."

Harry filed this information in the back of his mind. "Hm. I guesss I've never really been able to tell the difference between this and Englesse."

The man frowned. "I've never heard of sssuch a thing. You are not of the noble line of Ssssalazar, then?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe I am, who knowsss?"

The other did not seem satisfied with this remark, but didn't say anything else about it. After a moment, Harry started up the conversation again. "Ssso why are you in here?" It was perhaps not a particularly tactful question, but then, the dementors had sucked everything but the barest sentience from everyone's minds by now, and manners were usually the first to be disposed of.

"I..." the man shuddered. "I remember him taking my signet- I wouldn't have given it to him; father will kill me- he just- I think I remember killing that muggle...but why is everything so dim? I..." he drew a long breath. "I...think the official charges were for muggle-baiting and murder...I remember some of it, but it all seems off...I can't think anymore...I don't...Merlin, help!" he screamed in parseltongue, a horrible, rasping slithering cry that made the echoing corridors of the lowest level resound, throwing back echoes that sounded malevolent and inhuman. Harry could not quite suppress a shudder, even with all his meditation.

"I'm sorry," Harry said finally, ever so quietly.

The other shuddered again, and then slowly seemed to calm. "I don't remember," he rasped finally. "All I remember is that boy."

"That boy?" Harry asked, hoping against hope that the question was not too sensitive, that the man would answer, or, failing that, at least not have another attack.

The other man shivered. "Never knew his name, but it was clear enough who he was. He had that muggle's face and her brown hair. And he was a Speaker. My sister ran off with a muggle, you know," he said, as if expecting Harry to be aware of his story. "He looked just like his father, but he smelled like magic. Magic and death." The prisoner stared off into space, reminiscing, for a long time, and then a veil seemed to flash over his eyes and he became incoherent once more. Harry studied him for a few more moments, worried that he would bite his tongue in one of his fits but unable to do anything about it even if he did, and then he went back to doing pushups on the stone floor to the accompaniment of the other prisoner's mumbling and the wails of those on the other levels. He had a lot to think about.


End file.
